


Wight Heat

by The_Rolling_Tomes



Series: Gentili e Sculacciati [7]
Category: Runescape (Video Games)
Genre: Adult Language, Honey Badgers Don't Dance, Indulgence Concentrate, Innuendo, Mobster AU, Multi, Organized Crime, Reference to sex work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2021-01-15 08:42:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21250595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Rolling_Tomes/pseuds/The_Rolling_Tomes
Summary: Jazz, skullduggery, dancing, and deception.





	Wight Heat

I’d seen my share of well-cut ivory suits. The casino’s human landscape was often speckled with them like markings on a dappled horse, and anyone dropping coin on Sliske owning several would see their bets beget fortune several times over. They were a choice made by people seeking attention, meretricious social butterflies, and a rarity in places where the wrong interest risked upset to a smorgasbord of underhanded dealings. Light suits were for social ringmasters and unencumbered vulgarians on good terms with the constabulary.

Usually. Then there was _ this _ivory suit. And the man in it.

Touches of soft gold and navy blue neatly tread into distinctive territory, but the understated hues divorced them from vulgarity. The same color theme was echoed in the two-tone wing tips, their blind brogue perforations rimmed with thin gold outlines. The gold had an aged look to it, too, almost diluted compared to the mirror sheen of brass on the doors, and the statement didn’t go unmade.

High rollers in all manner of threads had come and gone, usually with a significant dent in their savings, and - while these suggested refinement rather than the trappings of someone who’d harvested lettuce from the craps tables and decided to treat himself - nothing about the man who’d passed through the casino’s front doors bespoke anything unusual.

Save the hair, anyway.

Instead of Pict’s study in riotous defiance of trend, the newcomer’s was an emblem of style. It was straight, and true white instead of silver, shared in eyebrow and meticulously trimmed, angular beard. The newcomer himself turned to speak to someone behind him, and I noticed what’d been pulled back lay in a tidy stream ending between his shoulder blades. Smooth, but the unforgiving chandelier light overhead told no tale of hair grease.

I shot a look around for Bug. The Ring’s self-appointed mascot had foregone his spot at the front of the casino, using one of the potted plants as pitifully inadequate camouflage while peering down the hall at Sliske’s door. Another glance around revealed no Pict, so I could only assume he was occupied with the boss in a more first-person capacity. 

Torag had reached arm-crossing point in an argument with a drunken patron closer to me. It wasn’t going well for the patron, but Torag wasn’t going to be any help up front. I was on my own.

_ Figures. _

I took two steps forward and stopped. A tiny, tasteful embroidery on the suit pocket caught my eye. A single star, simple, its northward- and southward-pointing tips longer than than the two on either side. It might’ve passed for a cross to a hurried gaze.

I felt my hands tense into fists as the name connected.

_ Saggazza. _

Here he was. Right here, now, in this place.

I caught his eye, and the man who looked more like someone’s criminally good-looking grandfather than someone who’d stood in unveiled opposition to Zamorak’s outfit either didn’t notice me bristling or didn’t care. He approached, a pair of more mundane suits in tow, and beamed down at me. 

The Italian accent was soft, but it was there. _ “Buonasera. _I wish a word with the owner. Would you be so good as to direct me to him?”

I floundered. We’d been told to watch for the star on his pocket on the street, or in surrounding bars and grocers, even around our own neighborhoods wherever we lived, but Sliske hadn’t prepared us - or, at least me - for Saradomin waltzing in through the front door and asking for the manager. Some things weren’t done. 

Some things weren’t… weren’t _ fitting_.

I scraped for wit to turn him away with and came up empty. _What did Wise call that medicine people stick up their asses? Supplicate? Supply? Suppa-something. Fucking what was it? _In the distance, I could hear one of the gamblers saluting a waitress with a _ hey, doll, whatta ya say, whatta ya know? _ Her return _ whatta ya know, whatta ya say _sounded forced, and I doubted the man would know the difference. They never did. It was jarring after the near seduction of Saradomin’s satin-rolled greeting.

Just a dollop of normalcy between cataclysmically abnormal events.

_ “Posso prendere il tuo cappotto?” _

I turned, and behind me stood Bug, hand outstretched toward Saradomin. A look back revealed a comprehending - and delighted - Saradomin. He lifted a bare hand in soft negation at Bug. _“Non è necessario, grazie.” _He ran the same hand down the front of his coat and passed a glance around before returning his focus to Bug. “I’m here to see the proprietor.”

“Right, right, you come right this way with ol’ Bug!” 

I reached out and snagged a loose fold of jacket sleeve over Bug’s upper arm. “Now might not be a good time, Bug.”

He patted my hand and I released the sleeve. He shook his head. “Boss says high rollers is all welcome at his office, he did!” He tugged at the bottom of his jacket. “C’mon-”

_ “Bug-” _

“I got it, Miss Bahir, don’t you fret!”

I watched him scuttle toward the back, Saradomin and suits in his wake, a last glance around revealing no Pict returning from a smoke break or emerging from the bathrooms. The interior of the Gray Ring’s main floor was absent one small, surly man with an eyepatch, and it was too early for the downstairs area to be active. Didn’t mean he couldn’t be down there, but the little shit did early mornings like either of us did celibacy.

Quick calculations didn’t favor my chances of diverting Bug and his charges before they got to Sliske’s office.

_ You’re on your own, Tick. Better polish off your drink. _

The band onstage struck up a peppy Goodman and I sighed, making my way towards the bar. There was nothing else to do. Old Blue Eyes - the other one - was busy putting some new hire through the process in his office. Sliske was occupied once and about to be occupied twice. There were gamblers, of course, but I wasn’t in a mood for five minutes’ uninspired grunting in a broom closet. Experience had taught me one thing: never fuck a mark.

A hand fell on my shoulder. Not weighted with the mindless greed of a drunk patron, but purposeful and measured. “Raz. Tell me you can cut a rug.”

I stopped and looked up at Torag with a raised eyebrow. “I’ve been known to tear up some carpet-”

_ “Raz.” _

“Torag, I’ve never seen you dance. More importantly, you’ve never seen _ me _dance. Dead hooper.”

His chest moved interestingly with his frustrated exhale. “I’m not asking you to turn into Ginger Rogers, here. Just,” he shot a glance between the stage and the hallway leading to the offices, “please. I think there’s a crummy penny in that pocket change.”

I looked in the same direction. Bug’s and Saradomin’s forms had evaporated into the dim hallway, but the latter’s two bruisers fell back, their progress slowed to a near crawl. Their eyes moved too much for men giving their boss breathing room.

Torag lifted his hand from my shoulder and curled his arm in invitation. 

Suspicion overruled further protests. I took the arm. “Lead on, Macduff.”

He spoke as we moved toward the open floor near the band. “You know, that’s actually from Shakespeare, but it’s a misquote.”

“I don’t care.”

Torag leaned in a little against the horns’ noise. “You’re missing a lot; Shakespeare was one of the wittiest minds ever to put pen to paper.”

I dodged the path of a foot and leaned in, giving him a deadpan look. “He made dick jokes no cat’s gonna get now. On the subject, do you know the word for that medicine people stick up their-”

“Hon, Shakespeare was more dick jokes than a detective novel. And farts. I can’t believe he’s not your favorite.”

“You got something to say, Torag, just say it.”

“Shut up and brace your hands on my chest. And jump.”

_ “What?” _

Torag put his hands on my waist and nodded. I hopped, keeping my hands even, arms locked.

He lifted.

I screamed.

Laughter and encouraging whistles greeted Torag’s performance, sound whirling around me as we moved. Stiff and startled seemed to be the trick; he swung me in some fancy maneuver where my legs jutted behind him, knee at his hip, then arced around to the other side. My shoes met the carpet again, and he grabbed my hand and pulled. I tried a spin and nearly stumbled, but he stepped in with an arm around my waist and molded the near-accident into a fluid dip.

I swallowed back nausea. “One more like that and I’m gonna throw up.”

Torag grinned even as his focus stayed on the hallway. “Ten bucks says I could get you to tango in a week.”

I tried to match his moves and hoped the audience was more interested in his lead than my flailing. “Ten says Necklace Bruiser’s packing a revolver.”

He almost misstepped. “Where?”

I wiggled my foot in a shimmy to cover. “Under the left arm.”

“His arms are at his sides. Both.”

I moved us a little closer, away from the center of the floor, a few inspired onlookers taking advantage of the freshly vacated space and finding their rhythm. I tapped Torag’s lapel. “Holster’s not on right. Bunching near the armpit but more toward the front. Look.”

The bruiser with the gold necklace shifted on his feet. Turned.

“There. See it?”

Torag had stopped actively trying to dance, keeping himself in the same rhythm as the crowd but no longer making any effort beyond swaying. He stayed positioned so both of us could see as he spoke. “It’s not… nah. Y’know, I’ll take that bet.”

I squinted a little, noticing another figure moving toward Saradomin’s guard and feeling a snarl tug at my upper lip. Torag moved and I grabbed his sleeve. “Wait.”

“He’s going to need backup.”

I shook my head. “Trust me.”

Ahrim - a gaunt fuck if ever I’d lain eyes on one - glowered his way through lingering gamblers until he reached Saradomin’s entourage. He spoke to them quietly, too quietly for me to hear.

Torag tugged at my waist, alarmed. “Swing or get off the floor, Raz, Jesus. We’re clogging the intersection.”

I allowed him to lead me further away from the dancing, sequinned throng, toward the potted trees near the hallway. Moving meant people. My view of Ahrim and Saradomin’s group went from smooth film to blurry snapshots as people passed between us and the conversation being had. We were getting close to-

“Ayy, Miss Bahir! I didn’t know you could swing.”

Ahrim jabbed a thin, accusing finger at the bruiser with the bunch in his jacket. It was difficult to be sure, but I was almost certain he’d pointed _ at _the bruiser’s shoulder. Then there was Bug, as if on cue, blocking my line of sight.

“Bug, _ not now- _”

Dejection seemed to sag the twin wiry hairs pointing down toward Bug’s eyebrows - the world’s most threadbare set of bangs - but he drew on another layer of the hopeful little onion he was. “Aw, just one roundy-round?”

“Maybe later, Bug. I-”

“-She’d love to.” Torag’s hands left my waist and he stepped back with a grin I wanted to punch. “Careful she doesn’t flatten your feet, Bug.”

I glared at Torag as Bug reached out to fill the space Torag’s hands had left. Bug moved his feet in an oddly cumbia-esque shuffle and I sidestepped, avoiding living up to Torag’s prediction and cursing inwardly. _ Motherfucker. _

My previous dance partner waggled his eyebrows and shot a fingergun at me just outside Bug’s line of sight, wiggling his thumb as though cocking the “gun” and making the crossed hammer tattoo on his hand move.

_ I thought we were friends, bitch. _

Bug babbled and I ignored it, looking down to avoid his energetic jig. The song stopped and I stepped back, looking back to the pair that’d come in with Saradomin.

Ahrim was gone.

“Miss Bahir?”

I looked back at Bug. “Hmm?”

“I’d go fer another roundy-round but there’s someone up front.” He pointed, alarmingly flushed for the minute’s worth of awkward shuffling he’d done.

Pretending a half-glance toward the entrance, I shot another look at the two suits that’d come in with Saradomin. To the one with the badly-situated holster. The bunching under his coat was gone. His jacket lay flat on one side as it did the other.

“Miss Bahir?” 

I fought the urge to snap at him and won. Barely. “I got it, Bug. Thanks for the spin.”

“Y’know, we could always-”

I tuned him out and made my way back through the tangle of dancing people toward the front. Trotting the two stairs to the upper deck, I stopped dead in almost the same spot I had when I’d first spied Saradomin.

_ Aphrodite and the President walk into a bar. Hostess says, “can I help you,” and the President says- _

“More poundcake in here than a bakery.” The man with the instrument case shifted his burden to the left hand, reaching out with the right. Before I could start the shake, he bent, landing a kiss on my knuckles too smooth for affected urbanity, and straightened. “Slick or Wanderer?”

I shook my head, suppressing the urge to snatch his porkpie hat for a keepsake and make dust out the door. “Just the help.” I turned and gestured toward the hallway where Saradomin’s pair stood like mismatched museum tourists who’d lost their docent. “Might want to get settled in first. The man’s got company.”

The Prez nodded. “The Man’s always got it when he’s not it. I’ll see if the string bean onstage wants to take five, get my best girl warmed up.” He patted his case and tapped a finger to the brim of his hat at his companion. “You keep those stars shining, Astrid.”

Aphrodite smiled thinly at him. I dutifully ignored that devastation for a moment longer. “Coast’s clear when the hallway is.”

The man turned, smoothness incarnate, lifting a finger and hook-twisting it as though twirling cigarette smoke in the air. “Ivey-divey.”

And then there were two.

“Can I-”

“Yes, you can.” Aphrodi… _ Astrid _dug around the inside of her coat, looking a great deal less impressed than I felt and unaware - or uninterested - in how quickly a coat-dive could be misinterpreted in a place like this. “I run the apartments upstairs, next door.”

_ You can run me, too, if you like. _“I see-”

“Good. Then you can help your boss _ see.” _ She withdrew a slightly battered envelope and held it out to me. “If you like your workplace, make sure he _ sees _this.”

_ What I’d like is to bury my face in you until I suffocate. _“Right.” I took the letter from her and probably did an abysmal job of not looking thunderstruck. “What is this?”

Astrid’s lips thinned again. “A recommendation for Glenn’s, particularly the curtains section of Glenn’s. My tenants don’t care for the view of what goes on upstairs in your… establishment. One more complaint after tonight, and I’ll ring the Constable myself.”

It was my turn to grimace. Cashien wasn’t the worst Constable, amicable relationship with Saradomin or no, but he had little fondness for Sliske for reasons I’d never been made privy to. The boss would want to know.  
  
I tucked the letter in my vest pocket. “I’ll pass it along, thanks.”

She seemed to consider something at my shoulder, then reached out. I stood patiently as she fingered the seam of my shirt and tamped the urge to reach back for a handful of spun-honey hair.

“You have a hole.”

_ Several. _“I do?”

“I’m surprised you didn’t spot it.” Censure and tentative kindness paired in her tone. “Of course, I have no idea what standards you’re held to in a casino.” Her hand fell away and she tucked her hands into her coat pockets. “I do a little seamstressing. Come by with your shirt and any other darning and I’ll see what I can do.”

“I… will do that.”

She gave me a stiff nod. “Only in the evening, mind you. I see to my tenants by day and reserve an hour or two by nine o’ the clock for myself. Five to nine, understood?”

I nodded back, confused and turned on in a way I didn’t comprehend at all. “Five to nine, right.”

Astrid gave me a final once-over, one that seemed to lay bare all my secrets and find them wanting, then turned toward the open doors and walked primly out.

Patrons passed me and I ignored them, puzzled, frustrated, intrigued. It took a moment to stow the mixture and return my attention to my surroundings.

Gamblers, some in ivory suits, none of them classy. Waitresses. Torag near the entryway to the upstairs. Gaunt Fuck had reemerged at some point, standing gloomy sentry by the tables and ignoring me as I walked past. His hands looked reddened around the edges of the palms, and I wondered if Torag had left him to escort some belligerent customer from the Ring by himself. I hoped he had. 

I made way toward the bar again, dodging a small social cluster and sticking near the wall. It smelled odd here. Like a public pool. I marked it to mention later and sidled up to the bar, ordering a whiskey sour. I had time; the brutes were still in the hallway and all I’d left to do was pass Astrid’s letter before I could go home. I sat and listened to saxophone music so sweet I thought I might melt all over the stool, watching the source tilt his instrument as though speaking alone to her, his best girl.

_ Watching isn’t so bad, Astrid. You should try it. _

I’d forgotten about the smell by the time Saradomin left.

**Author's Note:**

> The title "Wight Heat" is a play on a 1949 gangster movie "White Heat" featuring James Cagney.
> 
> Lester "Prez" Young makes a brief appearance here in fictional circumstance, but wasn't at all fictional. He was one of jazz's finest, and my personal favorite musician. The man was pure, unadulterated cool.


End file.
